


Poppies (The Remember Me in Poetry Remix)

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Non-Chronological, Reincarnation, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin comes home from the war. Arthur doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poppies (The Remember Me in Poetry Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Poppies](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/17972) by Reni_M. 



Merlin comes home from the war.

Arthur doesn't.

How is that destiny?

***

It isn't fair. 

Last time they died together, practically in each others' arms, in a fever-ridden hospital, and Merlin doesn't remember much about past lives but he remembers that - being that close, breathing each other's air until the dead, wet heat of the room took over and there was no more breath to take. 

This time they were born together, played together, grew together, joined up together - and Arthur fell, and Merlin didn't, and it tastes like that first time all over again, and he hates it. 

Somewhere out there, Arthur is being born again, and Merlin's going to miss it. 

***

The foul, sweet tea is boiling in a tin can - it's Merlin's job, as usual. Constantly. They may not have fuel or disinfectant or alcohol, and but they have tea. 

'We'll be home before Christmas,' says their officer in a voice made plummier in a desperate attempt to keep up appearances here, in the mud. 

Merlin doesn't have seniority enough to disagree with the lieutenant, but Arthur catches his eye across the tiny, smouldering excuse for a fire, through the smoke. He knows what Merlin is thinking. They both know it can't end that way, or this fast. Not unless it ends worse than they're hoping.

Because he does get access to the fire like this, Merlin tries to dry Arthur's socks, surreptitiously, but it's hard - racing trench-foot is harder than bayonetting a man or avoiding the gas attacks or ignoring the foul taste lurking in the tea. Merlin's been to war a few times now but it's never been like this before. He feels like a rat in a trap, and a hypocrite, and a washerwoman, all at once. 

Arthur bumps shoulders with him and takes the socks, and tells Merlin to get some sleep and that that's an order. 

As if Merlin could sleep. It's been raining shells, raining _rain_ for eight days. He's barely managed to scrape a few hours with his eyes closed by the time red dawn rises over the Somme. 

***

Poppies for remembrance, poems learnt by rote, and Merlin doesn't age (as long as nothing kills him) but every year the people averring that _we will remember them_ get younger. 

He used to like poppies. Poppy for sleep, Gaius made him memorise. Poppy to take away pain. Poppy is precious and hard to come by, Merlin - treasure it. Use it sparingly.

They give him a new one every year, fake-fake- _fake_. He keeps them all. 

Arthur deserved sleep, and respite from pain. Merlin never knows if he got it.

***

A young sergeant lays the wreath on Remembrance Sunday. Merlin is in amongst the populace, rows back. He doesn't wear his uniform - he looks too young for it, although a rheumy-eyed old man stopped him this morning and squinted like he knew him, and maybe did. His poppy stood out like dawn across mud-green fields on his chest. 

The sergeant stands, and salutes, and turns, all stomping-feet proper, and his blue, blue eyes find Merlin in the crowd. 

And Merlin remembers him.

(Destiny remembers them both).


End file.
